Tacet IV: Evening
by Marguerite1
Summary: Final entry in "Posse Comitatus" post-ep series.


TACET IV: EVENING   
  
Classification: "Posse Comitatus" post-ep, Bartlet POV.   
Summary: "A President cannot confess. A President cannot be shriven. This mortal  
sin he will carry to his grave."  
  
  
***   
Tacet IV: Evening   
***  
  
_Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna._  
  
Of course he mumbles to himself as he paces the Oval Office. And of course he  
does it in Latin, for he is not just the President, but Josiah Bartlet. Damn it,  
he is Josiah Bartlet.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye he sees CJ on the muted television as she gives the  
late-afternoon briefing. It's scarcely been an hour since she returned from  
Simon's funeral and she's leaning heavily on the podium, her lackluster eyes  
never once glancing up into the camera.  
  
_Culpa rubet vultus meus, supplicanti parce Deus._  
  
He should've sent her home. She looks like hell up there, trying to fend off  
questions about Shareef's death and the search for a plane no one is ever going  
to find. There won't be a body to bury, CJ. That's not how these things shake  
out.  
  
The cigarette he's been holding too tightly snaps in the middle, spilling  
tobacco all over the royal blue carpet. He groans, takes out his handkerchief,  
and gathers up the mess. Deposits it in the planter behind his desk. His sin is  
hidden.  
  
Charlie announces Toby, who shuffles in and hands the President a copy of some  
remarks for a fundraiser this weekend. Bartlet gives the document a cursory  
glance, hardly bothering to put his glasses on because he knows anything Sam and  
Toby have written will be magnificent. It's fine, he says, not looking into  
Toby's dark eyes because he knows Toby is his conscience, the one staffer who's  
pondered the events of the last two days and knows what really happened. Toby  
has learned his lesson about speaking his mind. He'll never mention what he's  
surmised. Nonetheless, there will always be something in his demeanor, something  
that says he will never feel the same way about his President again. And that  
hurts Bartlet more than he could have imagined.  
_  
Dies irae, dies illa, calamitatis et miseriae._  
  
The President clears his throat, then asks how CJ had held up at the funeral.  
Toby responds that she's not doing well, that she's straining to hold it all  
inside, that perhaps...and here he stops, rubbing his beard with his thumb.  
  
Perhaps what? Bartlet asks with a raised eyebrow.  
  
Toby begs his pardon, but rumor has it that the President is going to meet with  
a priest, his old friend Father Kavenaugh, at a church not too far from here.  
Could CJ...she might feel better if...  
  
Relieved, Bartlet nods his assent and goes with Toby into the hive of offices.  
People stand as he passes, nodding, murmuring greetings that he doesn't hear  
past the guilty roar of blood in his ears. CJ is lying down on the couch with a  
wet towel over her eyes when they knock briskly. Go away, Toby, CJ groans, then  
she hears the President murmur her name and she jumps to her feet. Her face is  
as gray as her dress.  
  
I'm going to church, CJ. He extends his hand, takes hers, clasps it. Come with  
me.  
_  
Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini._  
  
It's a short, quiet trip. There are some curious onlookers near the church, kept  
at bay by a police cordon and Secret Service agents. Ron Butterfield exits the  
limousine first. He takes his time, doubtless ensuring that there are enough  
agents to surround the Presidential party. The agents are one man short today.  
One good man.  
  
The interior of the church is modest, gray stone and hand-hewn wood, with a  
single kaleidoscopic window telling the ageless story of death and redemption.  
Toby hangs back by the heavy bronze door at the back of the sanctuary. It's not  
my...place, he explains to the President, and for a moment it's not about either  
of them but about CJ, who clumsily blesses herself and moves toward the altar.  
Mary's gentle, patient marble face seems to smile down on her as CJ goes to a  
table full of candles. She puts money in a box, picks up a candle, and lights it  
in front of the statue of a male saint.  
  
Bartlet senses Toby's confusion. Saint Joseph, he explains. Patron of law  
enforcement officers and those who die unexpectedly. He's waiting for Toby to  
make a remark about who the patron saint might be for Muslims who die  
unexpectedly. He almost hopes for it. But Toby's mind is on CJ.  
  
Her hair's fallen in front of her face and she doesn't tuck it behind her ears,  
just stays there, kneeling, rocking slightly back and forth with her fingertips  
over her eyes. What do you call it, Toby? Davening? Toby nods. Not so different,  
is it?  
  
No, sir. Grief is without...denomination.  
  
_Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis._  
  
Thomas Kavanaugh enters the chapel from a side door. Good evening, Mr.  
President, he murmurs, and they embrace. They look in the direction of the  
confessional. Bartlet shakes his head. I can't. I'm sorry, Tom, I shouldn't have  
dragged you all the way out here. I absolutely cannot tell you what has  
happened.  
  
The priest says that the confessional is sacred, but Bartlet knows better. He  
can never, ever, confess this to anyone. Leo knows, and doesn't believe it's a  
sin. Toby has guessed, and knows it is.  
  
I...can't.  
  
The two men sit down together on the pew farthest from where CJ is praying.  
Bartlet keeps his head lowered, feeling unworthy of the strong, kindly hand  
squeezing his shoulder. Of the unconditional love, the paternal forgiveness.  
  
He has fought against the death penalty all his life. If Simon Donovan's killer  
is caught, Bartlet will want him spared. He will have to look at the emptiness  
in CJ's eyes for ages to come, but this man, even if tried and convicted, must  
not die at the hand of the State. Yet he has ordered the execution of a man, not  
tried, not convicted, at the hand of that same State. And he is the State:  
judge, jury, and executioner.  
  
_Judex ergo cum sedebit, quidquid latet, apparebit._  
  
Father Kavenaugh asks, gently, what he can do to help.  
  
Bartlet looks toward the back of the chapel. At Ron, who looks as if he hasn't  
slept in two days. At Toby, who doesn't meet his eyes. And suddenly, inexorably,  
he understands. He can't be helped. A President cannot confess. A President  
cannot be shriven. This mortal sin he will carry to his grave.  
  
There's nothing anyone can do for him. But he can do this one thing, this one  
small thing, even though it won't be enough. He gets up and brings his old  
friend to CJ's side. Introduces them. Walks away to take his place beside Toby,  
to stand guard. A secret service, indeed.  
  
Father Kavenaugh takes CJ's hand in his as she rises to greet him. He is a  
gentle man, a good man. He will feel her pain in the trembling hand he smooths  
between his palms, will understand her confusion and her angry sorrow. May I  
pray with you, my child? CJ turns around, and for the first time Bartlet sees  
tears in those enormous eyes. But she's not looking for him, although she does  
acknowledge him with a tremulous smile, and her expression doesn't relax until  
she sees Toby, who watches her in silence with his hands over his heart.  
  
As CJ's tears come at last she kneels with the priest to pray for Simon's soul,  
now at rest, and for her own, still locked in the torment of new affliction. She  
kneels, weeping, to pray for lost possibilities, for what could have been, and  
for her friends. For Josh, who has taken this news so hard for reasons they can  
only begin to fathom, and for steadfast, forthright Sam. For Toby. For Toby. For  
Toby, and for them all. Now and in the hour, to deliver them from everlasting  
death. Even the one who deserves it least. For them all, she will whisper it  
through trembling lips. _Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna._  
  
***   
END   
***  
  
This series would have been four blank sheets of virtual paper had it not  
been for Ria's insight, humor, and dedication to finding just the right way to  
make these men and women have their say without saying anything. It's all about  
you, Ria.   
  
Translations for the Latin are by Byword via the libretto to Verdi's Requiem,  
and may be found here .  
  
  
  
Feedback would be welcome at marguerite@swbell.net .  
Back to West Wing . 


End file.
